


These Are the Lies

by RisqueSno



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry Erik, Angst, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik Being Cocky, Erik being all creepy, Erik makes outrageous accusations, Erik talks all fancy, Experimental Format, Extortion, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Midlife Crisis, Nadir is totally not buying Erik's crap, Obsession, Opera Ghost Mischief, Threats of Violence, heavy manipulation, limited dialogue, morphine addiction, patchwork fic, realizations from both parties, relationship progression, rumors and gossip, whole mess of lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisqueSno/pseuds/RisqueSno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was based from the beginning on an untruth. Erik/Christine, dark AU one-shot. Very Kay/ALW influenced.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are the Lies

**Author's Note:**

> A darker, alternate take on an already messed up situation. Mildly sexy, kinda horrific, and inappropriately disturbing on several levels. You've been warned. The writing and limited dialogue is also very experimental on my part, so it may put some off.

**Rating:** Mature (For references to violence, heavy manipulation, implied sexual relationship, drug use, and generally mature subject matter.)

**Beta:** Gladrial

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. The owners own. This is for fun, not profit. I've made no money.

**Orginally Posted to Fanfiction.net on 03-05-11**

* * *

Behind the perfect white mask there lay a monster's face, beyond which a demon resided, as black as tar and coiled like a viper, ready to strike in a split second to deliver a sudden, agonizing end. But the darkness and death he had so eagerly apprenticed himself to as a younger man was restrained, closed off out of necessity and weariness as he aged, replaced with chemicals, music, and the life of a ghostly specter roaming about behind the walls of an opera. That was the first lie, to himself, the one he repeated every moment of his existence haunting the halls and basement of his own architecture:

_I don't need anyone else in my life. I'm not lonely._

And then she arrived, thrown into the chorus like a broken, discarded doll no one ever intended to play with again. He knew what it was like to be discarded. Forgotten. He knew what she needed, what she longed to hear once more, after losing her doting father and any semblance of the talent he had coaxed out of her with his violin. So the Phantom became her friend, her teacher, and her secret, all with one, simple phrase. The second lie, spoken through closed lips of sick cleverness, using her childish notions and fairy stories to his own twisted advantage:

_Sweet girl, I'm your guardian angel._

Darling, beautiful little Christine! Giving him a purpose and making him feel wanted, needed, for the first time in his miserable life, in a way that wasn't soaked in blood and gold. Her tiny voice whispered secrets to him in the shadows of empty rooms, seeking his encouragement and attention, never once questioning his divinity or his motives. Regaling her with exotic tales and foreign song for her ears only, his yellow eyes following the child's every movement, from her soft smiles to the curve of her young chest, outlined in perfection underneath the bodice of her plain ballet garb. Thin dancer's legs tucked under a mass of tulle skirts that flowed gracefully when she spun on stage. He watched her during practice, rehearsals, and from his trusted box five during each performance, to the point where he was barely aware of anything else taking place around his Christine, who would glowingly accept his praise afterward, having slipped off still in costume. The third lie was a reminder, to himself after each conversation:

_She needs me as an angel, not a ghost or a man, and I am fine with that._

The mask viewed her as she slept in the dormitories, the monster sighed silently with each breath she took, and the demon waited behind a veil of lace, carefully following each moment with ready eyes and quiet thoughts of desperation. He wanted to touch her pale skin and taste the hollow of her throat, feel her naked fingertips on his chest. Own her completely. If only honest, true love could be bought and sold, he could put his extortion of the managers to better use! He wasn't used to feeling such passionate emotions accompanied by the physical ache he had long since given up on ever experiencing again, the attraction and affection he felt for her dwarfing any and all previous concerns. It became unbearable until one night, with an astounding amount of beauty rushing through his veins and his darling despondent over an incident at rehearsal, he took the plunge. But he was still weaving a beautiful deception, even while kissing away her tears and running cold, skeleton fingers through her hair. A fourth lie, striking like a coin into a depleted fountain:

_I'm not going to harm you, child._

How he spoiled his little chorus girl with his attentions, a ballet rat by day and a queen come nightfall, smuggled away into his domain of shadows unfit for any mortal eyes but hers. Every soft laugh or sigh from her was more beautiful than any symphony that he had ever heard. Her clumsy, curious touch was more human contact than he had dreamed of experiencing in the miserable life he'd led and he had no intention of allowing her to slip away. She was his precious jewel, settled underneath her ghostly protector nearly four decades her senior and resting dainty hands on his broad shoulders, paler than hers and filled with scars of yesterday. For the first time he felt like a man, a part of the human race however black his soul, and even when she would cry it was a gift. And how she would cry! Girlish sniffles and great sobs, rambling in high-pitched tones about the catty ballerinas above…children are so cruel after all. And he would never forget the tears during the fifth lie, at the glorious and wretched first moment of heat, murmured in time with her wince:

_It only hurts this once._

Love hurts forever. Like a gorgeous rose it looks wonderful, but you cannot touch the petals, only the thorny, painful stem of reality. But he possessed the bud and lightly drew his thin lips over every inch of it, delicate and careful, keeping within the law of the ever-present green. No bruises, no rips, no blood on any hands but his, tiny needles slicing through the skin as he gripped tighter, clinging to the only thing right in his world. He had been so intent on dying alone and bitter, clutching his masterpiece with decaying claws, finally facing judgment for the ruin and blasphemous principles of a sinner's life. But Christine, Christine, Christine pushed every notion farther aside, warping plans he had decided upon before she was even born, wedging herself into his every contingency and activity. His demise became less of a set goal and, for the foreseeable future at least, a subject best avoided. Though death concerned her immensely, the poor orphan, and his frank acceptance of it disturbed her enough that she wheedled the sixth lie out of him, curled in his lap and seeming very young, satisfied with insincerity:

_I'll never leave you, not even for the coffin._

Even demons die, particularly when their mortal forms are aged by half a century, the edges of dark hair tinged with gray and body caught in the throws of two love affairs, both of them involving a glorious release. At least he had nothing to fear from his looks going! The curiosity about his face was there, but never broached by his sweet out of what he assumed was polite, naive courtesy. It was fine until she, with more of an early morning than expected, saw the face of the monster, the mask watching hollow-eyed and mocking from his desk. The demon, fueled by a firework of opiates and remembered events, roared. It happened very quickly. He was hurting her wrists, he was scaring her, he wasn't making any sense, stop, stop, stop…She was just a child, after all, and he hated her for not caring about the corpse countenance and showing pity and acting as if the incident hadn't happened, so intent she was on keeping her ghastly older lover. And the seventh lie, whispered sincerely from blushing lips against his ear, small fingers resting on his bare neck, her body curled against his:

_It doesn't matter what you look like, Erik. You're not a monster._

Over time there were rumors of course, especially when the new managers arrived and jovially disregarded his demands, leading their opera ghost into an aggravated mission of mischief and terror, the likes of which he hadn't indulged in since a best forgotten childhood. Sets were ruined, costumes misplaced, patrons frightened, and pompous actors chased off. He made certain that his blossoming rosebud, whose emerging womanhood was now apparent to more than just him, was ready and in place to cover as leading soprano, the usual diva having been the sole victim of a week-long act of insanity. His precious Christine was nervous and proud during her debut, she had more than earned it in training, but the whispers about the little chorus girl, with her frequent mysterious disappearances and enthusiastic endorsement by the resident phantom in his letters to the managers, were persistent and attracted unwanted attention in the form of the Daroga. The troublesome Persian was a bastion of morals and conscience, refreshing in Tehran, during his younger days, but a completely unwanted fixture in Paris, when his entire world revolved around a grotesque example of vice and exploitation. On the banks of his underground lake, itching to return home to a sleeping Christine and his tourniquet, he impatiently spat out the eighth lie, in response to eastern prodding:

_I'm in complete control of my facilities, Nadir, and I consider it insulting that you've deemed me capable of doing anything untoward with the Daaé girl!_

At the heels of Christine's success came the long lost childhood friend, the sensitive and fair-haired Vicomte de Chagny, who was unceremoniously denied the time of day by her and proceeded to follow her around like a stray dog that wouldn't take a hint. She was keenly aware that the Phantom knew everything, saw everything, and her casual dismissal at the mere mention of the Vicomte that night in the underground parlor spoke volumes. An unconvinced opera ghost, skeleton fingers dancing along the ivory keys of his piano, laid out his feelings on the subject regardless, making quite certain she understood that he owned her, body and soul, just as she owned his rotting existence. And he spoke, during the bridge, of the necessity of pulling weeds from the flowerbed, lest they impede the growth of the rose. Tears of terrified resignation, disguised as an apology and whatever else she could grasp at, accompanied a ninth lie, graciously accepted by the drug-fueled demon that held dominion over her:

_Raoul means nothing to me Erik, nothing! He's just an old friend, I won't ever see him again, please don't hurt him. You know I love you more than anything! Just…please, Erik…please!_

The Vicomte did not aspire to be just a friend. The fact that they were also childhood sweethearts had escaped mention by Christine, and his pursuance of conversations with her still in hopeful, hushed tones began to apparently muddle her mind. His precious, though blessed with a beautiful and forgiving soul, was never the brightest or the most independent minded young lady and entirely too susceptible to the poisoning influence of the boy. Every rosy blush was a betrayal. His hand brushing against hers was adultery. How possible it was, he found that lonely night she vanished, for a corpse to feel the icy embrace of death. They thought they were hidden so well in the countryside, among servants and large gates, but Christine could never expect to escape him so easily. And she knew this. He could tell by her nervous jumps and frequent glances towards the shadows. The finely furnished guest room was where the eventual, expected confrontation occurred. Grasping the dressing gown around her tightly, she had the gall to cower before the man who had given her everything: his money, his time, his skills…his trust. It was not him who had ruined her, sullied her reputation, trampled on her heart. And her phantom told her this, growing more enraged at every step back she took from him, face contorted in ugly fear. It was she who had inflicted this wretched state upon him, with her bewitching innocence and damnable sincerity. The tenth lie, spat out of his throat like the most terrible curse he could conceive, an untruth that devastated him the moment it escaped:

_I can't imagine what I saw in you._

And as his face fell beneath his mask, a rare honest apology resting on his lips, the scared young woman's face became a clear pool of understanding. Clarity radiated from her eyes and skin **.** Tears he had once comforted halting unaided and her petal soft mouth slack with shock, the golden beam of light uttered the first truth to the dark shadow:

_Something you would never deserve._


End file.
